


Mistress Molly

by life0nmars



Series: Shameless Sherlolly [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Croissants, Dom Molly, F/M, Fucking, Light Dom/sub, Louboutins, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Riding Crops, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3230744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/life0nmars/pseuds/life0nmars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been away on a case, and has had time to think...</p><p>...and come up with some pretty interesting ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistress Molly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sherlockian_87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockian_87/gifts), [LeaveMeInPeace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeaveMeInPeace/gifts).



> An overdue sequel! 
> 
> It does kind of just... end. But I have been sitting on this for a couple weeks now and really just want to get it up for you guys (hurr dick pun).
> 
> Let me know what you think!

"Baker Street.  
Please come.  
I need you.  
SH"

It's been nearly a week since their tryst in the morgue at Bart's. Molly can't really be upset that she's not heard much from Sherlock. He's been on a big case with John up north for several days, and she knows how he gets when he's on a case. He did text her to say they'd left, and not to worry about him. That had her grinning to herself all evening while she was working - more than slightly disconcerting as she was performing a couple post-mortems. That he had even thought to tell her what was going on in his life spoke volumes about his affection for her.

So when her Sherlock-only text tone chimes from her pocket, she can't suppress the little thrill that runs through her. She nearly drops her phone trying to fish it out to eagerly check the message. She's bundled up comfortably in some old jeans, trainers, and several bulky jumpers and had just been about to leave her flat and go to the corner bakery, having a craving for their big, buttery croissants. She decides to buy several so they can share. If Sherlock's just home from his case, he's doubtlessly hungry. 

***

Sherlock hears the unmistakable sound of Molly's soft yet sure footfalls on the stairs outside his door. He's not normally given to physical reactions brought on by emotional situations, and is fairly concerned when his heart beats a little faster, tingles making their way down his spine. Is this... anticipation? Anxiety? No, not anxiety. He isn't feeling bad. Not by a long shot. He is slightly nervous, he decides. It's been several days since he last laid eyes on Ms. Hooper. Their last encounter had been, well, it had been nothing short of brilliant. She was soft, and warm, and so responsive. It had been a challenge to remain undistracted while on this last case, and yes okay maybe it took a little bit longer to solve than it would have a couple weeks ago. He'd be in the middle of the botany wing or the hall of tapestries in his mind palace when, like Hogwarts castle, the floorplan would change and he'd find himself in front of Molly's palace door. Rather than be irritated though, he found himself smiling and peeking through. 

Maybe some distraction wasn't a bad thing. 

Naturally he'd stored their entire experience together in its own alcove in her wing. He could replay it for his own enjoyment again and again. 

One thing stood out in his mind as he reviewed it once again - how much the both of them had seemed to enjoy when Molly had taken a bit of control. Sherlock, being Sherlock, took this detail and examined it. He had known Molly for years, and parts of her personality were as familiar to him as his own. She's quiet but not weak. Intelligent. Observant. And there was that time she'd slapped him. Despite the circumstances, he'd liked it.

So, Sherlock had decided he’d like to try something different. There would be more planning and preparation involved this time but he hopes that he’d read the signs correctly and that it would be enjoyable. Even if the idea he has falls flat, he still gets to see Molly and that is honestly the most important thing in his world right now.

***

Molly’s long, multi-colored scarf brushes her knees as she climbs up Sherlock’s staircase. It’s an enormous effort to not just sprint up them and burst into his flat. As she reaches the top, her usual anxieties kick in and she wonders if she should have texted him that she’s here, or if she should knock, or just walk right on in..? She’s only visited Sherlock a couple of times in his flat, and this time there isn’t a sign on the outer door saying she should just come right up. Her moment of indecision is short-lived though, as the door flies open and he’s standing there in his trademark tailored suit and white button-down, smiling as warmly and sincerely as she’s ever seen, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an excited toddler.

“Molly!” he sighs, meeting her in the doorway with his arms outstretched. Her doubts have vanished and she’s leaning into his embrace, allowing his long arms to enfold her, wrapping hers around his slim waist, paper bag containing the croissants clutched in her fist at the small of his back. He tugs on her long ponytail, hinting, and she tilts her face up toward him as he leans down. Their lips meet softly, tenderly, moving against one another. It’s mere moments until the kiss turns into something else entirely. Sherlock wraps her ponytail around his hand and tugs, earning a soft moan from her. Her mouth opens to his tongue and he takes full advantage, sensuously sliding it against hers, claiming her. Neither one of them had realized just how much they’d missed each other until now and it’s consuming, this passion they’re feeling, the warmth of one another’s body and the familiar, intoxicating smells of each other.

Eventually they break apart, staring into each other’s eyes like nothing else in the world exists. Molly is stifling a giggle and Sherlock doesn’t even bother, chuckling low in his chest. She closes her eyes at that familiar sound, letting out a soft little, “Mmm,” of appreciation - at being here, with him, seeing his beautiful clear eyes and breathing in his unmistakable Sherlock-ness. He begins to walk backward, leading them slowly into the flat. 

As the door closes behind them, Mrs. Hudson can’t help but let out a quiet, excited giggle of her own as she retreats back through her own door downstairs.

Sherlock releases his hold of Molly’s hair, sliding his arms down hers until he’s dragging her by her free hand into the living room. She sees a relatively fancy box sitting on the coffee table in the midst of the normal clutter. It’s big and somewhat flat, with a red ribbon tied around it and into a bow on the top. She glances up at Sherlock and he’s watching her carefully, a mischievous glitter in those pale eyes. “For me?” she asks him.

“A bit for both of us, really,” he replies mysteriously as he leads her to sit down on the sofa. 

“I got us something to share, too!” She’d nearly forgotten the pastries in her hand but she now thrusts the paper bag under his nose. He inhales deeply, making yummy sounds and smiling at her. He relieves her of the bag and opens it up, pulling one of the croissants - still just a little warm from the ovens and soft - from inside it. He takes a greedy bite, and then another, and the poor thing is half gone before Molly can even blink. He swallows audibly.

“Open it!” he pleads, unable to suppress his anticipation any longer.

“You seriously got me - us - a present? You brought a souvenir home… from your case?” She’s suddenly apprehensive. “If this is a severed head, I’m going to be very upset.”

“No heads,” he replies around another mouthful of croissant.

She reaches for the bow, glances again at his kid-at-Christmas expression, and then continues toward the package. She pulls the loose end of the ribbon and then lifts off the lid.

Layers of red tissue paper separate the components of the gift. The very first thing she finds as she unfolds the first layer is - shoes? She glances again at Sherlock, who has set the bag of remaining croissants on the coffee table and suddenly looks nervous. Molly picks up one of the shiny, black high-heels for a closer inspection. They are beautiful, she has to admit. The heel is just high enough to demand authority but not so high as to be treacherous. And then she notices something else. Molly isn’t much of an expert on fashion but even she recognizes the trademark red soles on these. 

“Sherlock,” she breathes. “Are you - are these - seriously? Louboutins? A real pair of Louboutins? Oh, my god. Sherlock these had to have cost you several hundred pounds.” She wants to carefully set the shoe back into the box, close it, and back away very slowly. Molly is generally a practical sort of girl when it comes to her wardrobe and she can’t imagine a situation in which these ridiculously expensive creations would fit in.

At the same time, she can’t tear her eyes away.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he says, waving one elegant hand dismissively. “The cost is unimportant. It’s the look that matters,” he states matter-of-factly. “The shoes are necessary. I’m going to be looking at them a lot. Keep going!”

Brow furrowed, Molly takes the other shoe out of the box and sets them upright, side-by-side, on the table before continuing on with her present. Under the next layer of red tissue paper is what appears to be a very well-tailored suit. She stands up and strips off her outer layers, tossing them carelessly onto the armchair next to the table. Under her jumpers she has on a worn, plain white tank top through which Sherlock can see the shadow of a black bra. As she pulls out the pieces, she holds them up against herself to check the fit. First, a knee-length pencil skirt of black, high-quality linen with light blue pinstripes. A nearly scandalous slit runs up the back of it to her mid-thigh. A button-up blouse is next in the same light blue as the pinstripes. She smiles, remembering which set of underclothes she’d been wearing during their first encounter. Next is a black, fitted vest and a black tie, followed by a very well-cut jacket to match the skirt. Under the jacket is a carefully folded pair of… oh dear. Black fishnet thigh-highs?

Molly has never worn fishnet stockings in her life.

Then again, she’s never touched a pair of Louboutins in her life before, either. She decides to go with it.

“So you got me… an outfit? You want me to wear this? For you? It’s lovely, I mean. I’d like to wear it.”

“Even the stockings?”

“For you, especially the stockings.”

“Erm, Molly, that’s not all that’s in the box.”

Molly reaches down, flipping over the last layer of tissue paper, and - oh.

Oh.

She stares down at it. A lot of different emotions cross her mind and she desperately tries to keep them off of her face, knowing that Sherlock is studying her reaction. It’s taken a lot of trust and vulnerability for him to be as candid with her as he has been in the last week, and the very last thing Molly would ever want to do is scare him off or disappoint him. Above everything else, Molly has Sherlock’s back. She would give him the world if she could, anything to see his smile. If this is what he wants, she has no choice but to indulge him.

Of course that can’t stop the pang of irrational jealousy that stabs through her. The only time Molly has ever seen Sherlock show any sort of interest in a woman was with The Woman. Irene Adler had come swooping into their lives with her (admittedly fantastic) naked body and those red lips, stealing the attention of the man Molly had been pining over for years. And now it’s finally Molly’s turn with his heart and his pants. And this is what he wants.

Of course.

At the bottom of the box is a riding crop.

***

Sherlock is holding his breath as Molly reaches the last item in his gift. He’s not sure how this is going to be received. He knows how much she cares for him and how much she’s willing to do for him, but he doesn’t want her to feel obligated to humor him. The rest of the outfit has been easy. He’s known Molly’s measurements and shoe size for ages so getting the correct fit had been no problem. And Sherlock is no stranger to riding crops, so he knew where to go to get a good-quality, sturdy model for Molly. It’s black with silver scrollwork in the leather grip over the handle. There’s a decent amount of flex in it too, the better to get a nice swing in and deliver a perfect, stinging blow. But it isn’t the crop itself that has him worried.

However much Molly tries to keep her poker face, the flash of something in her eyes and the brief, angry clenching of her jaw muscles is impossible for him to miss. Of course, he’s such an idiot! He’d been too excited about this, too single-minded to think of all the ways this could go wrong. The last woman to use a riding crop on him had been her. The Woman.

Miss Adler would always hold a special place in Sherlock’s memory palace. He had found her fascinating and she’d provided a very neat puzzle for his questing mind. And though Sherlock had been celibate still at the time, he wasn’t immune - he could see that she was a very attractive specimen. 

But she wasn’t Molly.

Molly Hooper with her angelic face and brilliant mind, her shy giggle and her ability to see right through all of his bullshit. Her strength. And now he knows her body, he can only look forward to more with her, more and more and more. Memorizing every freckle, cataloguing everything that brought out those breathy moans, anything to get her to whisper, “Oh my god, Sherlock,” in that way that made something very warm spread through his chest and reach right down to his dick. He wants to do everything with her, wants to try everything. Though she perhaps doesn’t quite yet realize it she already owns him. Sherlock just craves a physical representation of the power she has over him, wants to be at her mercy, at her feet, worshipping her in those ridiculously expensive shoes. And he wants her to want that, too. 

This has nothing to do with Irene Adler.

***

“This has nothing to do with Irene Adler.”

She’s not sure if he realizes he’d said that out loud. Of course he’d been able to follow the path her mind had taken when she’d seen the crop. And though she’d tried, she knows he can feel the tension and anger leaking through her self-control. She slowly sits down and takes a couple of deep breaths before she can snap something stupid and damaging at him. She knows that the one thing he will never do is lie to her.

“Molly, I am so sorry. I didn’t even think. I know now how stupid that was, of course you would immediately associate this with her, anyone would. But I promise you, the only thing on my mind the entire time I’ve been planning this is seeing you in this, wearing these shoes, holding this crop-” he takes it out of the box and places it gently in her hand “-and making me beg just for the privilege of touching you. I want you, Molly. More than anything I’ve ever wanted. You are so strong, and so beautiful, and all I wanted was to show you the power you have over me. Over my heart. We don’t have to do this at all if you don’t want to, of course. What we had the other day was perfect, more than perfect. I would die a happy man if I had the chance to love you like that every single day. I just thought - I mean, if you wanted - I just want to try everything with you -”

“Shut up.”

“Molly?”

She stands, riding crop in hand. His words had both melted and emboldened her. Of course this wasn’t about The Woman! She was beautiful, but she had nothing over Sherlock. Not like Molly does. Sherlock belongs to Molly.

“I said ‘shut up,’ slut,” she says. Her voice has steadied, deepened slightly. There is a distinct authority ringing in her words. Her shoulders are back, chin high. She’s standing and he is still sitting on the sofa, frozen, mouth slightly open. His breathing has picked up and his eyes are starting to darken. She’s showing no sign of hesitation, looking down her nose at him as he sits there entranced.

“Here are the rules. You will call me Mistress. You are my slut. That is your name. If I ask you a question, you are to say ‘Yes, Mistress,’ or ‘No, Mistress.’ If something I do feels good, you are to say ‘Thank you, Mistress.’ When I say beg, you beg. Is that understood?”

Sherlock is, for once, utterly speechless.

Molly brings the crop down on his thigh, hears the satisfying thwap it makes through his trousers. “I said, ‘is that understood?’”

“YES, Mistress!” The sharp pain has brought him back to the present. “Thank you, Mistress,” he nearly moans.

“Do not make me repeat myself again.” She stares right into his eyes, idly tapping the crop against her left palm. “If I ask you ‘What color?’ you are to reply with green, yellow, or red. Green indicates you are comfortable and completely okay with what is going on. Yellow indicates discomfort and is your way of asking us to pause or back off of a particular activity. Red means stop. We will cease immediately all activity, and you will be released from any physical restraints at once. Is that understood, slut?”

“Yes, Mistress.” His eyes had widened at the mention of physical restraints. Molly took note.

“What color?”

“Green, Mistress.” Sherlock’s voice had reduced to a purr. He was already slightly flushed, the front of his trousers showing signs of tenting.

“You are to follow any and all orders given to you, slut. If you do so you will be rewarded. If you fail, you will be punished.” Her eyes softened slightly as she looked straight into his. “You will never be punished for saying ‘red,’” she said.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he whispered reverently.

“Now, I’m going to go change into this beautiful outfit. When I come out you are to be in the bedroom. You are to be undressed, sitting back on your heels at the end of the bed, facing it. Behind your back, you will grasp your left forearm with your right hand and your right forearm with your left hand. Leave at least two feet of space between you and the bed. Keep those pretty eyes of yours downcast so you can appreciate my new shoes. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mistress!” He’s up on his feet and almost running to the bedroom, losing bits of his suit on the way. She smiles fondly at his retreating back, gathers up her new belongings, and heads toward the bathroom to change.

***

He can’t believe it. Sherlock trusts his senses above all else, that which he can see and hear and observe right in front of him. Molly had snapped right into character when that crop touched her hand, he saw it happen, and he still just couldn’t believe it. Oh, it’s Christmas! He’d missed her terribly, more than he’d noticed, and not only does he get to see her but she had brought yummy croissants knowing that he’d be hungry - the amount of caring she showed for him, now that he allowed himself to notice, took his breath away - AND she wanted to try this just as much as he had hoped. Not only did she want to but it seems that Mistress Molly has at some point done her homework. Sherlock is absolutely tingling in anticipation.

Fully nude in his bedroom, he shoves his clothes into his wardrobe and closes the door. He knows Mistress would disapprove if he just left them on the floor like usual. He kneels down onto the floor as he’d been instructed, facing his bed and sitting back on his heels. He reaches behind himself with his arms and grips as high up toward his elbow as he can. He tries, he really does, to keep a subservient expression schooled onto his face but a half-goofy-half-lustful grin keeps threatening the corners of his mouth. He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply through his nose and out through his pursed lips, and gets control over himself. Mostly. He only fidgets a little bit while waiting for Mistress.

***

Molly is very careful as she dresses, making sure everything is on straight and tucked in properly, tie is tied and smoothed down into her vest, seams on her fishnet stockings in a straight line up the backs of her legs. She winds her long hair into a severe bun, slicking back the stragglers with some water. Last comes the shoes.

They’re surprisingly comfortable, for high-heels. As she shifts her weight experimentally back and forth, she realizes that the holes in the fishnets actually allow some of her bare skin to provide traction inside the shoes. Regular stockings would have made them slippery and even more treacherous, and leave it to Sherlock to be both practical and to indulge in his own fantasy at the same time. One last look in the mirror as she gathers up her riding crop and Molly can’t help it - this is definitely starting to really turn her on. She feels… sexy.

She opens the door and starts to walk down the hallway, slowly and deliberately so that the loud clu-clunk of her shoes can be heard through the floorboards approaching the bedroom. She slaps the riding crop audibly on her hand as she walks and develops a rhythm - clu-clunk, clu-clunk, slap. Clu-clunk, clu-clunk, slap. She knows the anticipation must be driving Mister Impatient-Smarter-and-Faster-Than-You absolutely mental. Which is, of course, the whole point.

Molly reaches the bedroom and stands just in the doorway. Sherlock knows she’s there and he’s dying to see her in this authoritative outfit but he obediently keeps his eyes downcast. Molly just enjoys the view for a moment. Though it is mid-afternoon, the dark curtains over Sherlock’s windows prevent any natural light from entering. Instead he’s managed to light several mismatching candles over multiple available flat surfaces, even the corners of the floor. From the amount of wax that’s pooled in their holders and around their bases, she deduces that they’d been burning for some time - probably since he’d first texted her.

He really is rubbing off on her.

The warm light of the candles illuminates Sherlock’s pale skin, flickering flames highlighting the lean muscle of his torso, the strong lines of his arms. His curly head is bowed, arms clasped behind him, elegant back and shoulders straight. He’s already mostly hard, dick hanging heavily between his slightly parted knees. He looks absolutely beautiful like this and she tells him so.

“Very good, slut,” she praises him, slowly circling around behind him, staying out of his view. “You look perfect like this. Gorgeous.” She’s behind him now and starts trailing the riding crop across the line of his broad shoulders. He shivers beneath the leather, barely holding in a groan as he finally receives contact.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he says loud and clear. Oh he’s eager!

“You did just as I asked, clever boy. I appreciate the extra step with the candles. It’s nice and warm in here and your body looks lovely in this light.” She can see a slight flush creeping up his neck and turning his ears red. Aha, she knew he would appreciate praise. He’s always doing crazy things to get approval from people, why should this be any different?

“Thank you, Mistress,” he repeats. His voice has gotten a bit husky now.

“Clever sluts get rewarded. Do you think you deserve a reward?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Beg.” She begins trailing the riding crop down his muscular back, lightly tapping the leather against his skin, tracing patterns over his shoulder blades. He shivers again.

“Please, Mistress. Please may I have a reward? I’ve done just as you told me to. Oh please, please! I’m yours to command, always, I’ll be so good for you, I’ll be your perfect slave, your willing slut, please! May I have a reward?” He’s nearly breathless with barely contained excitement.

“Oh, such good begging! How can I resist that? Very well.” She walks around toward his front, entering his field of view for the first time. All Sherlock can see are her calves, her ankles, sheathed in the fishnets, and those ridiculously expensive Louboutins. So he may have blown a decent chunk of his and John’s pay for that case on this one outfit for Molly - it’s SO worth it. Her slender legs in those stockings are almost enough to make him lose control already. He can smell the leather of the shoes warming up with her body heat and mixing with the melted paraffin of the candles and feels slightly high.

Sherlock feels the leather of the riding crop trace its way around his right shoulder, slide up his throat and catch him below the chin. Molly uses it to tilt his head slowly up and his eyes take in the whole view - shins, tight skirt that hugs her hips, fitted jacket, and by the time he gets to her immaculately tied tie his mouth is completely dry. He keeps going up and sees her hair up in the bun, her chin raised so she’s looking down her nose at him, and she’s holding the crop like it’s an extension of her own arm, like it belongs there. Her easy confidence and just the way the suit hugs every curve her slender body is driving him crazy. “Thank you, Mistress,” he breathes.

Molly actually sees Sherlock’s pale eyes completely dilate when he finally is allowed to view his creation. She has to admit that she feels very good in this. However, with so many layers, she’s quickly gotten a bit too warm. She turns around and lays the crop on Sherlock’s bed, then begins to unbutton the jacket. Molly moves slowly, keeping up Sherlock’s anticipation. She slides the jacket off and lays it on the end of the bed before picking up the riding crop again. The entire time, Sherlock has not taken his eyes off of her.

“How would you like to earn another reward?”

“Yes, please, Mistress!”

“Such a good, eager little slut! Alright then. Up on your feet - make it sexy. You may release your arms.” 

Sherlock finally gets to let his arms go, and he flexes them a little bit to get rid of the slight tingling that had begun. It wasn’t enough for him to “yellow” but it had started to get uncomfortable. He slides one foot underneath him, rising slowly to one knee. His breath catches in his throat, and he can hear Mistress have the same reaction - this position is very suggestive of something else. He’s surprised to find that the idea doesn’t frighten him, but it does intrigue him. As he hasn’t been told otherwise, he retains eye contact as he slowly rises to his feet. He bites his lip and tilts his head slightly, letting his intense gaze flicker over Mistress’s entire body before settling back on her face. He hopes that was good enough.

Molly’s lips are parted and she’s beginning to flush. The graceful, steady way Sherlock had gotten his feet under him had indeed been quite sexy. His lean muscles flex under that pale skin, his battle scars reflect the candlelight, hip bones creating triangular shadows that act as an arrow for the eye straight to his thick, proud cock bobbing between his legs. That cute little lip-bite-head-tilt is just playful enough to endear him to her even more. She’s not sure how much more of this teasing role play she can handle before she pounces. She is enjoying herself immensely, though, and can plainly see that Sherlock is, too. The show must go on.

“That was excellent. One more step to earn your reward. Remove my skirt. Mind the shoes.” Higher level thinking is beginning to present a challenge to her.

He steps closer to her and reaches his long arms right around her to find the zip on the back of her skirt. She can feel the heat radiating off of all that exposed skin, can just smell how aroused he is, a slight sweaty musk that is not at all unpleasant. He unzips it slowly, then drops again to his knees to slide the skirt the rest of the way off. His thumbs gently brush her thighs, sheathed in their fishnets, and all the way down her legs to her ankles. The caress feels strange but wonderful through the material and she shivers a bit as he moves down. He then taps first her left calf, then her right, showing her when to step out of the skirt. He tosses it carefully up onto the bed to join her jacket, and peeks up at her through his lashes, awaiting his next command.

“That was perfect,” Molly is having a hard time maintaining the tone of authority now. She clears her throat softly before continuing. “Your reward. I think you know what to do. You’re such a clever little slut,” her voice softens, “My clever little slut.” She reaches down and just moves her panties aside, revealing her lower lips to him. She’s glad she chose this pair today - plain black cotton, hip-huggers with a wide lace band. They’re nothing too fancy but they do compliment the outfit.

Sherlock can’t help the low growl that escapes him as he leans forward. His lips are brushing her, breath hot on the sensitive skin as he groans out one more “Yes, Mistress,” before diving in with enthusiasm. 

Long, slow licks with his warm, firm tongue up and down the seam of her lips have her throwing her head back and groaning deep in her throat. Molly is unrestrained with her reactions to him, knowing that this is what he’s craving from her - he wants to please her. This entire scene is more about power than actual corporeal punishments. Sherlock does have a superiority complex, she knows - and not without reason. The man is not without his faults, but in most things he is at least six steps ahead of the general populace. She knows that being the one in charge, the one making all the decisions, can be exhausting for him. At the same time, it would be very difficult for him to trust another “ordinary” human to take control. The idea that he is trusting her enough to allow her to be the one holding the figurative reigns is a very high compliment. The power she’s got over him is intoxicating, arousing, and humbling all at once. He has given her a priceless gift today, and what she can give back to him is every ounce of appreciation she has for it. Molly can show Sherlock that she knows exactly what he’s trying to say and that she is with him absolutely. So, she groans.

Not that she could hold it in if she wanted to. Because this is… heavenly.

Molly grabs a hold of his hair with her free hand and tugs, guiding him forward as she slowly sinks down onto the edge of the bed. He crawls after her without breaking contact, his soft, full lips wrapping around her clit as he gently sucks on it, massaging her folds with that ridiculously talented tongue. “Mmmmmuh, oh my GOD, yeeessss. My panties, Sher-slut. Take them - ohhh, fuck! - off, now.” He reaches up and hooks his long, slender fingers into her lacy waistband and tugs. She arches up off the bed long enough for him to pull them past her hips before relaxing once again down onto the mattress. Now with both hands free, she leans back onto her elbows so she can just watch the show. 

Looking down her petite body, blue dress shirt, vest and tie beginning to ruck up around her heaving chest. The magnificent head of the world’s only consulting detective is bobbing between her stockinged thighs, and she raises up one leg to hook her knee over his pale, muscular shoulder and rest her shiny black Louboutin in the center of his back. A flush is creeping up from his chest to spread over his cheeks, and his eyes are closed in absolute bliss as he devours her. Small tremors are starting to form in her thighs and the slow, sensual slide of his tongue against her center is relentless. He can’t help the deep moans coming from him and she can feel them against her wet, sensitive flesh. Her breaths are coming faster now, catching in her throat, and she abandons her moans as all her attention zeroes in on that one point. He can feel that she’s getting close and focuses his efforts, swirling his tongue around and around, sucking lightly. He peeks up at her through his lashes and has to fight the urge to wrap his own hand around his dick to ease the ache - wispy tendrils of her honey-brown hair have come free from her severe bun, her neck and face are flushed and rosy in the light of the candles, her brow is furrowed in concentration and she has a death-hold on her bottom lip with her small, white teeth. Suddenly she gasps as all her muscles clench at once and he wraps his strong arms around her thighs to hold her in place. Molly grabs a fistful of Sherlock’s mussed-up curls, riding his face as her climax hits her, screaming obscenities and praise all jumbled up in an incoherent mess. He keeps his warm mouth on her, pressing his tongue firmly against her clit while barely moving it, prolonging her orgasm. “Oh you fucking gorgeous - uuhhhnnnggghhh - yeh-heh-hessss - oh my FUCKING GOD!” and she’s finally released from her high, aftershocks clenching her core and she collapses backward onto the bed. Sherlock rests his head on her thigh, panting heavily against her swollen pussy and awaits further instruction.

“You,” she pants, “me, naked, now.” She gestures vaguely with one limp hand. 

“Yes, Mistress,” he purrs, rising lithely to his feet, allowing himself a bit of a swagger as he approaches the bed. He stands between her knees and leans down, slowly unbuttoning her vest. That task finished, he then reaches for her tie, loosening the perfect knot Molly had tied and sliding the silky material free from her collar. He looks up mischieviously into her lust-filled gaze, running it through his fingers for a few moments before setting it aside. As he begins on the buttons of her blouse, Molly slides her fingers up along the backs of Sherlock’s hands and traces the muscles of his strong forearms, reveling in the feel of his silky pale skin. 

Molly loves Sherlock’s hands. Elegant, slender wrists, large palms and long fingers. Like the rest of him, Sherlock only has a smattering of light hair on his hands - they’re not horrendously furry paws like a lot of other men have. Despite how much work he does with them, they’re always very clean (which is something that the scientist in Molly definitely appreciates). His body temperature runs slightly cooler than most people and his hands reflect this, which is a delightful and refreshing sensation as his proximity causes her to overheat almost instantly. Unless he’s itching for a case (or some other distraction), his hands are quite steady. She has spent countless hours watching him in her lab - placing slides under the microscope, adjusting the viewfinder, mixing delicate solutions in test tubes. She could watch those long fingers dance across his violin strings for hours. 

Those same fingers are now sweeping her blouse open, reaching around her waist to lift her up off the bed so that he can divest her of her shirt and vest and banish her bra to a dark corner of the room. 

Molly scoots backward up the bed, blinking slowly up at Sherlock through lust-heavy lids. “Well done, slut,” she breathes, “now get up here and fuck me.” She props her head up on his pillows, a wave of his scent wafting up to meet her, and throws her arms up over her head. She’s left in the ridiculous stockings and shoes, her bun beginning to come loose, shamelessly spread for him, utterly debauched and wanting. 

Sherlock crawls up the bed to her. His hair is half-crazy, muscles flexing in his shoulders and arms as he slowly makes his way up, pale skin drinking in the warm candlelight. He’s achingly hard and leaking, bobbing proudly between his legs. As he reaches Molly and climbs over top of her, he rests his weight on his forearms and leans his head down. “Yes, Mistress,” he growls in her ear as the head of his cock breaches her, sliding easily into her soaking entrance. Molly wraps her arms around him, digging her nails into his newly-healed back to add to her already impressive collection of scarred lines. As he slowly fills her they both simultaneously let out low, animalistic groans. He rests his forehead against hers, breathing against her lips, and then she’s kissing him, finally, wantonly pushing her tongue in to slide against his and tasting herself still in his mouth. Remembering his orders, Sherlock slides almost all the way back out and then all the way back in again, slowly, languidly, fucking her at a leisurely pace. Molly moans into his mouth and wraps her legs around his narrow waist, hooking her ankles together, careful not to poke him in an awkward place with the heels of her shoes. 

God, she’d missed this. Somehow after just one encounter she had become addicted. The heat of his body pressed close to hers, the rich smell of him surrounding her, his warm, perfect lips pressing soft kisses to her neck. The muscles in his back flex under her hands as his hips roll sinuously, thrusting himself deep inside of her. She’s powerless against her building climax as Sherlock sends her spiraling higher and higher with each plunge into her soaking core. She can feel herself beginning to clench around him, her deep moans turning into one long, wavering wail. Sherlock, seeming to read Molly’s mind, gradually increases his pace, the slap of skin and wet, sliding sounds mingling with their moans and filling the air. Molly drags her nails down his back and he gasps at the sting before growling in pleasure, curving his body over her, hitting that spot inside her that makes her scream incoherently and forces her abdominal muscles to start to convulse. She’s so close now, arms and legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer, one of his long arms has made its way under her lower back while the other frames her face, fingers digging into her loosening bun and he’s biting and kissing her neck, her shoulder, her ear, breathing heavily into it and nearly whimpering as he fucks her good and proper. Sherlock feels a sudden flood of warm around his cock and Molly’s walls start to flutter and he fucks her through it, slowing and deepening his thrusts, licking the sweat from her pulse point and sucking her lobe between his teeth. “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, FUCK-!” Molly chants and Sherlock lets out one final groan before thrusting once, twice, three times deeply into her and empties himself inside her. 

The first thing that surfaces into Molly’s mind as she comes back down is, “What the bloody hell can I possibly use to reward that?!” as the entire world and the moon and the sun and stars are slightly out of her price range.

He pulls back to look at her face and he has that smirk again, that insufferable “Of course I’m good at this too, I just fucked you into next Tuesday,” smirk. She loves that smirk.

“Well done, Sherlock,” she decides is appropriate praise as soon as she can get words to come out of her mouth again. This scene had been extremely gratifying, but she’s ready to just be Molly and for him to be Sherlock again and signals this by using his name. And then they’re doing that thing again, where she starts giggling, and so he does as well, and there they are all sweaty and sticky and he’s still inside her and they’re laughing like a couple of love-struck idiots. Because that’s exactly what they are.

“It was my pleasure, Molly,” he replies. “Although I think you had some of that, too.” He carefully slides out of her and rolls onto his back next to her with a satisfied “Ahhhh.”

She rolls over onto her side to face him, propping her head up with her hand and laying the other over his chest. “You,” she says, “are amazing. And mad. Completely mad.” She leans down to capture those perfect, pouty lips with her own.

“Mmm, I think that’s a compliment. Mad means not boring, right?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock grins.


End file.
